


Brother

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Drinking, Emotional Hurt, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grumpy Old Men, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pet Names, Sad Michael, Sexual Tension, Shooting Guns, Sort Of, Tattoos, Trevor Phillips Being An Asshole, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21546034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Michael's dragged out on a rage-induced heist by none other than Trevor Phillips (as per usual). He studies Trevor's tattoo where his name is engraved when he's supposed to be keeping a look-out and almost gets them killed in the process. Lots of angst here, as it's Michael and Trevor. But the ending is uncharacteristically soft.I am so late to this fandom, lmao.[[This fic is stuffed with gun violence, drinking, and very, VERY explicit language. Keep in mind when reading]]
Relationships: Michael De Santa & Trevor Philips, Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 14
Kudos: 118





	Brother

The inked engravings are stark against sunburnt skin, prominent and real. Bold, black letters of his name staring back at him, taunting him.

Every time the man wears a tee or something less that showcases the tattoo, Michael can feel the scowl pulling at his lips. It’s as if Trevor’s trying to stuff it in his face, to really rub it in, that yes, he _did_ get a permanent marking on his skin for him. In _memory_ of him.

Michael doesn’t know what’s more frustrating. The fact that Trevor always wears a piece of him, his name on his skin forever, or the word that stands in quotation marks beneath the template. ‘Brother’. It gets beneath Michael’s skin and digs its way into his veins, an unholy mix of frustration and bliss.

Because while Michael’s flattered this psychopath can feel and acknowledge a connection to _him_ of all people, he ponders on it too hard when he drinks. He tastes the word in his mouth, bitter and pungent like the cheap booze on his tongue.

 _Brother_.

He supposes ‘best friend’ gives too much of a _third-grade friendship bracelets-vibe._ And they never were lovers.

Michael stuffs that thought away, far back into a dark corner of his mind and locks it up, so that he can never reach it again. He swipes the rest of the beer, forcing it down and smashing the bottle against the asphalt. The view of Sandy Shores’ abandoned beach was no longer as enticing as Michael had first hoped when driving out here.

He should get back.

* * *

No longer than a day later, Michael’s in the middle of a disastrous, headache-inducing heist that of course, Trevor dragged him into headfirst. These… _people_ , stole from T and ‘God damn nearly set his business in flames’, should you believe his words -- although he _does_ tend to overexaggerate -- and this? What they’re doing right now? _Vengeance_. Trevor didn’t need to say that for Michael to understand. They touched a nerve, prodded at stuff they had no business prodding at, and now, they have to _pay_.

Pfft. Don’t they know who Trevor Philips is? You can’t poke the bear and run on this one.

Although Michael’s more disappointed in himself, following Trevor with little to no hesitation to this thing. The amount of self-loathing he stores for letting himself be puppeteered by his best friend has its very own place in his mind and, needless to say, it’s expanding quite consistently.

They’re holed up behind a stone ledge on a rooftop, taking turns in shooting at the remnants of lunatics that are out after Michael’s lunatic. Mike’s peeking through the scope on his rifle, hunched over while T’s covering him. He takes out redneck after redneck, the familiar jolt of the rifle in his hands with each shot fired sending a thrill through to his core. His shirt is sticking to his back in the hot Los Santos sun, sweat beading his brow. He can hear Trevor yell profanities and insults down at scattered opposition on his rear and it makes him smile. Just like old times, huh?

“Alright, M, not many of ‘em left and we’re still up and breathin’! It takes more than that to kill Trevor Philips, motherfuckers!”*

He roars, drawing a cackle out of Michael. He can’t believe this nut job’s energy, they’ve been up here and shooting for the last hour. He’d honestly be surprised if they haven’t killed every bumpkin in Sandy Shores by now.

“Okay, you can rest, Porkchop. I’m takin’ the wheel for these last turds. Cover me.”

“You’re too kind, T.”

Michael shoots back, albeit relieved when he sags back against the ledge, exhaling a ragged sigh. Trevor starts shooting away, shells from his machine gun flying everywhere as the cracks from each bullet rips sickeningly through the air.

“Oh, I’ll show you kindness. Just you wait Mikey-boy, until this is over and I’ll shove my gratitude right up that tight ass of yours.”

He’s all talk, this one. Michael knows this after 17 years of knowing the man, and yet it still makes his face feel hot. He reminds himself of his job, _helping_ and covering Trevor, making sure they don’t _die_ and scans his side of the building. Offs two snipers who had just set up camp on the roof next to them.

That was too close.

“You wish, ya sex-crazed mongrel,” says Michael, and Trevor laughs, sharp and amused.

“That, you got right! I am. But niceties will have to wait until we’re far from here riding with the sun, my friend. So keep it in yer pants.”

It’s all a little gay, Michael thinks.

Scratch that, it’s very gay. It’s _painfully_ gay, and they have been doing this ever since they first met. Michael hates it.

There’s no one else by the rear from what Michael can see from the roof, so his eyes take the lead and travel from his scope to Trevor, who’s perched up against that ledge, popping the last ones off now.

_No. Michael De Santa, you do **not** look at his tattoo. Don’t you fucking dare. _

But it’s too late. His eyes are burrowed into the inked skin, transfixed on the letters of his name.

Every movement the man makes, gripping the weapon closer to him, pulling the trigger, it flexes his bicep deliciously, toned, sunburnt skin teasing Michael to no end. He blinks, wets his lips. He’s not attracted to this maniac, he’s _not_.

But every time he says that to himself, it loses power. It’s ‘truth’ signed label fading.

Two shots smatter the air, one grazing Michael’s head just barely. A cold wash goes down his back.

“What the fuck, Michael?! Thought you were supposed to cover me? Get yer head out of yer ass and shoot ‘em down!" Trevor barks, busy on his side while Michael nods, completely snapped out of his trance.

His sights go to three new snipers set out on respective rooftops around them and he makes quick work of taking them down. His heart thrums against his ribcage violently, searing hot anger pumping through his veins upon the thought that Michael almost got them both killed because of Trevor’s stupid guns. And _not_ the one he’s handling, if you catch my drift.

“What are you doin’ back there? Cloud spotting?”

“Got it handled, T. You just take care of the rest of these sons of bitches,” he assures him and he doesn’t look back again until they’re out of the woods.

* * *

“Cheers to us, Sugartits!”

Trevor calls, bottles of Pibwasser clinking together. Michael chugs the cheap booze, it’s not great but it’s not bad enough for him to abstain from drinking it. He doesn’t need anything fancy when he’s with Trevor.

They got out alive out of this and Michael’s mind tortures him by reciting just _how_ he almost fucked that up.

They whistle past cars on the highway, in Trevor’s rusty, shabby scrap of a truck, and Michael has a feeling they’re reaching the other side of town by the sun’s shifting in the darkening sky. Something chaotic plays on the radio, and Trevor’s sing-screaming the lyrics, which is a lot of ‘you’re one of them’.*

Michael gives the cracked wing mirror a glance for probably the tenth time, making sure no one is after them, still.

“Relax, Michael. They’re done for. Not a looney left to track us now.”

“God, I hope you’re right,” Michael agrees, thankful for Trevor’s lack of response. He was half expecting the man to pull another ‘the city changed you into an even bigger turd’, but that doesn't seem to be the case. He allows himself to sink back into his seat, exhaling a long sigh.

“That was one helluva mess, T.”

“Yeah, well, we got out of it, and that’s all that matters. _Right_?”

Michael hears the edge in Trevor’s voice and he’s too tired to fight him. So he just nods.

“Right.”

“And we got out of it a thousand G richer!” he howls, a genuine sharp-toothed grin plastered on his face. Michael glances over to him and is relieved that T’s tattoo isn’t visible from his angle. He takes a long sip from his beer.

An unintelligible amount of time later, Trevor has pulled up by a rest stop close by the lake, where the sound of cars is but faint, in the distance, and they have camped out on the bed of the truck, wasting no time in finishing the sixpack of Pibwasser. Michael’s not sure what time it is, what day it is, or who he even is anymore but there’s something freeing about that.

Hanging with Trevor truly does make him feel more ridden of worries. No matter how much he’s supposed to hate the man, to fear him, that’s just not a mindset he can get into anymore. And he’s not sure if that’s Trevor’s fault or his own.

“What was that back there?”

Trevor’s first to break the silence, a gesture so uncharacteristic it throws Michael off at first. He knows what T’s getting at, clear as day, and yet all he can do is blink and utter a ‘ _what?_ ’

“You’re never that inattentive during a heist. What gives? You still hung up on yer stripper girlfriend and those kids?”

And that ruins the moment of peace, a scowl spreading over Michael’s features. That was a low blow. He doesn’t bother looking at Trevor when he spits his response through clenched teeth.

“Fuck you, T.”

“Woah, okay. Hit a nerve, did I?”

And to think Michael was regarding him so highly less than minutes ago. Not bothering to give Trevor anything more -- why should he? --, T has to make the first move. Not his strong suit, that.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it, M. You know that.”

He’s unusually cooperative. It’s… strange.

“Well you do a pretty damn good job makin’ it seem like it. Why don’t you try raisin’ kids and treating your wife right before shitting all over my way of doin’ it?”

A silence settles akin to a lingering stench, and Michael thinks they’re done talking until words are spoken aloud, almost bashfully.

“Sorry.”

He nearly falls off the damn truck. ‘Sorry’? Trevor? _Unironically_? His head falls to the side, his eyes meeting green, remorseful ones. His breath catches in his throat and he swallows thickly. The air is heavy, the silence near deafening. The only sounds that can be heard are the whooshing of cars from some highway far off and both’s labored breathing. Michael can nearly taste the booze off of Trevor’s tongue and it’s making him dizzy.

“Don’t gimme that look," Trevor finally says, breaking their eye contact by looking up towards the star-speckled sky instead. This relieves Michael, gives him a chance to catch his breath while he glances at the half-empty beer bottle he abandoned by his feet. He knocks it off the truck, grimacing. No more alcohol for him.

Normally, he’d do the opposite and drink until he’s numb, but tonight, he just doesn’t trust himself doing that. The way he’s feeling and thinking terrifies him.

“What look?”

“ _That_ look.”

Michael sighs.

“Elaborate.”

“The look that says you’d rather be anywhere but here," Trevor mutters half-coherently, avoiding the other’s gaze and Michael’s brow reaches his hairline. This man never seizes to surprise him. He props himself up on an elbow, wanting to reach out and touch Trevor for some Godforsaken reason. Fucking-A, he’s truly lost it, hasn’t he?

“Hey, no, that’s not it at all.”

“What is it, then?”

Michael opens his mouth, closes it again. He can’t say it. Saying it is acknowledging it and acknowledging it means having to talk about it. And God knows Mike doesn’t want to do _that_. He can’t get a word out, and that leads to Trevor snickering and taking another swipe from his beer before trashing the bottle against the ground.

“As to be expected. Fuckin’ Townley.”

He stands up, a movement resolute and immediate and Mike panics. It’s obvious, too obvious when his voice wavers.

“Where are you going?”

“Who the fuck knows, Michael? I sure don’t.”

Eyes flitting over T’s tainted tattoo, over the back of his head, Michael realizes that he can’t let him walk away. He ignores all rational thought and 'what-ifs' and launches himself up from the truck-bed, grabbing hold of Trevor’s wrist and anchoring him.

Trevor spins around, any look of surprise quickly covered up by a scowl as he stares Michael down menacingly. His eyes are intimidating.

“What now?”

Michael doesn’t know what now. He’s got the man’s attention, and he has approximately 5 seconds to speak before that man’s patience wears thin.

“I...”

“Yeah? What’s got the rich man so flustered, huh? Out with it!”

It’s not a suggestion, it’s a _demand_ , one that can’t be disobeyed nor avoided. Michael’s eyes flit over the background, wanting to find ground anywhere but Trevor as he bluntly comes forward with what’s been on his mind all this time, summed up in one word.

“Stay.”

Now it’s Trevor’s turn to be thrown off his game. The look of irritation on his face morphs into an expression of pure shock almost comically fast. His mouth falls open and his eyes turn wide, a glint of something indecipherable in green irises.

And then a smile curls his lips, a rare sight.

“That’s all you had to say, Sugartits.”

**Author's Note:**

> *1: If you recognize this reference, Kudos to you.
> 
> *2: The song Trevor's sing-screaming to is none other than "My war" by Black flag. It's probably in my top three of Channel X songs on GTA V radio.
> 
> Oof, this is my first work in this fandom, and I have to say, these two mf's got issues. Hell, I got emotional writing this. I really hope you enjoyed it tho :) Kudos and/or constructive criticism is warmly welcomed. <33


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